The Missing Scenes
by misscake001
Summary: Series 2 alert.'Missing scenes' that won't leave my brain alone. NOW A CHAPTERED STORY.Slash or leaning towards slash. Please Review and suggest scenes you'd like.
1. Chapter 1

**Happy New Year to you all! I have watched E1 S2 loads already and so compelled to write a few chapters of small 'missing scenes' that I am sure only exist in my brain... All learning towards slashy goodness of course ;) Please Read and leave comment.**

**Should old acquaintance be forgot…**

He stands at the window with his back to me and brings the violin up to its natural resting place. I've never taken the time to look at it close up before, I mean _really_ look at it properly. In the glare of the Christmas lights about our window, I now see that it is cracked and stripped of its varnish in places and looks as bare and worn out by the chase as its owner.

"So she's alive then?"- I say nervously. "How are we feeling about that?"

The bell signalling the end of one year and the beginning of a new one tolls in the distance casting London in a very strange half-life for me. It feels like a stale mate. A cross-roads of sorts. I stare at my feet, taking my chance to show all the cards I have left amongst this horrid business that has bought me to my senses.

"Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"

He glances at me from over his shoulder and smiles to himself. As per usual, he doesn't have to say a word.

"Good." I say quietly, nodding to myself in relief and suddenly finding the glass in my hand very interesting. "Okay. Good."

Silence.

"….I mean, not good if that's not what you want. It's really nothing to do with me, I was just…."-_messing this up? Sounding like a selfish prick? _He watches me in fascination and raises a tell-tale eyebrow. He does adore reading me.

"I think she's taken up enough of our time, don't you?"

He pauses for a second and I see him bite his bottom lip; a gesture I know he enlists when he is unsure of whether what he is about to say is 'acceptable'. He seems to change his mind at the venture entirely and turns back to the window.

"Happy New Year John."

He brings the antique looking instrument back up to his shoulder and begins to play the slow, beautifully perfect notes of 'Auld Lang Syne', but then abruptly falls silent.

"There was, however, one more thing she asked of me."

"Oh?"- I say trying not to sound disappointed.

He turns his face towards me, regarding my eyes upon the floor.

"Later"-he says changing his mind once more. "Later John."

I feel exhausted all of a sudden; the weight of the unsaid words still within me are cold and mocking, playing heavily upon my mind. I place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze it gently; the most sentiment I will be allowed this evening and take my chair to listen to his note filled conversation. I don't fight the sleep that creeps up on me whilst listening to his melodies.

She had been 'The Woman' in every sense of the word, the only woman that had gotten his attention at least. I'm sure she felt otherwise, in fact I knew it. Once again it was the chase that he had loved; not her. The rest had been _interestin_g and _head turning_ yes, but not in the way one might suspect for him. It was never what one expected with Sherlock; my continual life lesson it seems.

However, none of these _misunderstandings_ on _her_ part had helped to quell the tide of jealousy that had begun to swell in my stomach very early on. She had immediately observed the effect that her Sherlock-based behaviour had upon myself and had revelled in it. They were alike in that way; Sherlock and 'The Woman'. However, Sherlock would only ever use his deducting skills for science alone. She used it to hurt, extract and withdraw. A social Scorpion it seems.

I am in that blissful place between wakefulness and sleep when I realise he has stopped playing.

"John, wake up," he says gently.

I frown at him through a sleepy haze. "Sssshhhh, John's sleeping," I say with a smile, closing my eyes again. "Please keep playing Sherlock. There's no better way of seeing in a New Year."

He doesn't. Instead he takes the sagging glass from my hand that was in danger of spilling and keeps his hand around mine.

"Stand up John."

I do so, having been awoken by his sudden and uncharacteristic touch.

"What is it, what's wrong Sherlock, you look….."

"I need to see if she was right."

"Who, Irene?"

He takes my other hand in his, the slight calloused tips of his musical fingers dancing around my wrists. He moves a little closer, close enough for me to feel his breath on my cheek and leans in completely as he takes my right wrist and pulls it around his waist. I lean in also, unable to control the hammering in my chest. Before I can close the gap between us, I feel the pressure points of his fingers ghost around my radial pulse.

"It appears she was correct," he says before I can pull him the rest of the way to me and finish what he has started. "I imagine you think that love is a mystery to me John Watson, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very distractive in fact. Now, let me show you a better way to start the year."


	2. Chapter 2

Another 'extended' scene from episode 1, Series 2 (Not a follow on from my previous chapter though). This is the scene back at the flat after Sherlock has been drugged by 'The Woman'. I loved this scene. I will be making my way through the rest of the episodes soon, so please Read and Review with any suggestions. JX

No characters are mine bla, bla, bla

**Chapter 2**

**The Monster under the Bed**

_Hush now don't worry. I'm only returning your coat._

"John. John?"

"You ok?"- I say, flinging the door wide on its hinges.

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"That Woman, The Woman, the Woman Woman. She was here John."

"Irene Adler? She got away, no one saw her. She wasn't here Sherlock."

I watch him stumble about and finally hit the floor with a thud. _Bit early to be gallivanting then_, _God knows what she gave him._

"What are you doing?"-I say stretching out to catch him as he tries to scramble to his feet failing miserably. "Ok, that's enough Sherlock." I drag him to his feet and push him towards the bed, holding him down for a few seconds to make sure he remains there. "Stay. There's a god boy. You'll be fine in the morning."

"Of course I'll be fine, I am fine. Absolutely fine."

"Yes" – I sigh. "You're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"-He says quickly, sinking into the pillows which muffles his voice.

"No reason at all Sherlock. No reason at all."

I watch for a second until I hear the signal of soft breathing and decide that it's safe to retreat back to the living room, leaving the door slightly ajar. I sit with a fresh cup of tea and look through the paper from earlier. I'm close to dozing off in my chair only minutes later.

"John. John?"

_Oh God not again._

This time I find him on the floor by his bed, holding his phone and riffling through the pockets of his coat_. His coat. How did that get there? 'She' had taken it._

"John", he says again with relief as I appear at the door his balance non-existent. "She got in. How did she get in? Why did she get in? My head is upside down."

I scan the room and see the window cracked ever so slightly. "I'm guessing by that window and in order to return the possessions that she…'borrowed'. And your head is the same way up as it always has been."

"Get the gun John. We're not safe." He scrambles to his feet again and trips over sending the contents of his side table to the floor.

"We don't need the gun Sherlock, believe me. Come on now back to bed _please_. You're going to hurt yourself."

"She's dangerous John."- He says grabbing on to my jumper whilst I shove him back towards the bed.

"Come on Sherlock. I really don't think she wants to hurt you…...Much anyway." I remove his hands from my jumper and he looks at me with a hazy curiosity. "Seriously, you need me to tell you that she likes you Sherlock?"

"What do you mean?" –He says trying to sit up, but unable to keep his eyes focused. I pull the sheet back up about his shoulders and tuck it in trying to pin him there_. A little trick I picked up in med school._

"She _WANTS_ you Sherlock". I say in quiet amusement.

"Wants me for what?"- He scoffs. After a pause I see the cogs turning, albeit a little more slowly than usual of course. Then the almond eyes widen.

"Get the gun John."

I chuckle to myself. "She was just returning your coat. Relax. If you keep on like this you're going to make yourself sick."- I say pulling the pillow underneath his head.

"My eyes are fluffy John. I can't see."

_Such a drama queen._ I sigh and think about the cup of tea awaiting me along with the TV and a comfy chair. "If I give you the gun will you stay in bed and go to sleep?"

"There are no guarantees."

"There never are with you."

I go to the living room and find my gun. The bottom line was that she could still be dangerous. I couldn't actually be sure what she'd do next and she had just broken into our flat after all. I call Lestrade to catch him up and check that the barrel of the gun is loaded, sliding it in to my back pocket and grabbing a small banana from the kitchen on my way out.

When I return, he is hidden in the mountain of sheets from the bed muttering to himself. "Put the gun under the pillow."-He says drowsily.

"Sure." I say, slipping the banana under the pillow next to him and pausing for a second as his hand checks its position. I can't help a small snigger when he is seemingly satisfied with the fruit-based weaponry. I'll be filing this away for future mockery. I close the window and see that the latch is indeed broken. Maybe I won't be sleeping sound tonight then. I begin to back out quietly and get as far as the door.

"Where are you going?" says a slurred voice.

"It's late Sherlock, go to sleep. I'll be in the living room."

"Why would you leave me John? I've been drugged. I'm vulnerable."- His voice getting louder. " You'd leave me for that, that woman? I can't feel my ears John! MY EARS."

He thrashes about within the sheets for a while making it clear that he won't be sleeping unless I stay with him. _Honestly, the great Sherlock Holmes needing protection from a woman._ I'm not going to get any peace otherwise and so I grab a stool from the kitchen and place it alongside his bed. I lean over and turn off the bedside light.

I feel him fighting sleep in the dark 30 minutes later; the only noise being the occasional groan.

"Your leg is hurting you," says a voice in the dark.

"It's fine, go to sleep."

"If you're going to stand guard you may as well do it on the bed."

I haven't got the energy to remind him that he asked me to stay, so I pause for a second then slip my shoes off and head to the other side of the bed, feeling a little uncomfortable as I pull some pillows up to the head board.

"I take it you have armed yourself with more than just fruit? I fear my banana won't be as effective as needed."

I look down at him catching a small piece of light within his eyes despite the dark. We giggle a little. He stops when it obviously hurts his head and turns to face me, curling up a little. I take the gun out of my pocket and place it on the night stand and as I turn, he places a hand on my forearm, leaning his forehead to it.

"John."

"Hmmm?"

"I feel nauseous. Plus I can't guarantee that my head won't explode."

I take a second to lean down far enough to take in his face; eyes all scrunched up, huddled up against my arm, trying to persuade the room to stop spinning. I straighten up against the headboard and sigh. This is my place for the night it seems.

I Remove his hands from my arm with a small noise of protest and place the imprisoned hand upon his forehead. I begin to trail fingers around his head, rubbing away the tension that I find there. His eyes relax and he curls further into my side.

"I personally guarantee you that your head won't explode Sherlock." – I say gently. All I get in return is a soft snore.


	3. Chapter 3

**How about a bit of light relief from the devastation of episode 3, I know I need it… This rewritten scene is from the beginning of 'The Hound'; where we find Sherlock pacing up and down the flat looking for cigarettes… PS. Sorry for the teasing at the end ;) **

**Chapter 3**

**The Bargain **

"You promised."

"Sherlock, it's nine in the morning and I'm reading the paper. Go and find something else to do."

"You promised and I'm warning you now. I will go and find it elsewhere."

"No you won't."

"You're supposed to be distracting me when I feel like this John. It's your job." He waits for my answer and I stand my ground, ignoring the last comment. I see him from the corner of my eye as he straightens himself to his full height believing that this will somehow make it more appeasing to me. "Please", he says with the most sentiment he can muster (It isn't very much). I pull the newspaper closer and he growls. "Fine, give me my cigarettes then."

"No. You have to learn to entertain yourself Sherlock."

We are interrupted by the doorbell and he glares at me with his best 'this is not over' face.

I had become concerned in the recent months that our 'developing relationship' had begun to largely rely on bribery; namely _me_ pacifying his erratic moods with _his_ suggestions for alternative activities. It of course was secretly no problem for me to oblige him, but lately, as with most things that Sherlock became enamoured with, things had begun to get out of hand and in some instances, a little aggressive. I could handle him, of course I could, but I had to try and reel him in a little. So, as you would do with any 'child' behaving the same way, it was time to begin 'retraining'.

Our guest; poor Henry gets the brunt of his frustration and I'm left to fill in the gaps of humanity as always. I am at first glad for the distraction that it has supplied my friend, but just as I think I'm getting somewhere, he initiates his new weapon and watches carefully for my reaction.

"So you're not going then?"- I say more to myself, seeing right through his plan.

"No I can't leave London at the minute, far too busy." He turns to Henry. "But don't worry I'm putting my best man on to it. I can always rely on John to send me all the relevant data as he never understands it himself."

"What are you talking about _you're busy_. You don't have a case. A minute ago you were complaining…"

"Bluebell, John, the case of the glow in the dark rabbit." He looks at me with his I _told you this wasn't over_ face.

Henry, who is stuck in the middle of a silent argument of which he knows nothing about, looks between us in a state of utter confusion. "Sorry, you're not coming then?"

_It's my move_. "Ok Fine." I get the patches from a draw near my chair and throw them at him, hoping that will appease him enough for our current company. He throws them promptly over his shoulder.

"Don't need those anymore. You go ahead Henry, we'll follow on later. Won't we John?"

"Sorry, so you are coming?" says Henry.

He looks at me with the most smug expression I have seen to date. "Am I coming John?"

I leave as long a pause as I can manage. "Fine. Fine. You win Sherlock."

He smiles in contentment then notices Henry's confused expression. "A monstrous hound? Wouldn't miss it for the world." He turns back to me and takes the newspaper out of my hand. "Now here's the deal John. We get the train to Devon and I'll drive when we get there. I know you hate driving…." He starts to try and remove my jumper and I pat his hands away angrily.

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

"….On condition that you take me back to bed before we leave for Paddington."

"Um…. I think I should be going now then."- says Henry, grabbing his coat and backing out the door. I think I actually hear him run down the stairs.

"What? Oh yes, whatever. See you in Devon." Sherlock shouts after him.

"Did you have to say…. _that_?" I ask him, trying to keep my voice calm as he takes advantage of my distraction and pulls the jumper the rest of the way over my head.

"Say what?"

"Never mind", I say wearily.

"Now, get into your pyjamas, retrieve the 'equipment' and meet me in my bedroom."

"Must we really bother with the pyjamas?" I ask.

"It's better that way. We agreed." He looks a little hurt then makes a gesture to indicate that he's waiting for me to move.

"In your own time John….. But quickly, or I'll start without you."

I point a finger at him. "That's against our rules Sherlock remember? We agreed."

A minute later I pass him in the kitchen as I go back through to his room and give him a disgruntled glare. What had happened to all my good intensions? I had sold out for an easier life yet again. Pitiful. I would not be telling the therapist about this, that's for sure. I climb on the bed with the 'equipment'; the source of most of our power struggle-based arguments from the past two months.

"Right then", he says as he appears at the door, back in his dressing gown and holding two mugs of tea.

I take my mug from him and open the board. "I bloody hate playing Cluedo with you Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

**Once again I haven't the emotional energy to tackle 'The Fall' yet, so here is some more light-heartedness, (well in comparison to the finale anyway). This is set right at the end of 'The Hound' and again is a bit of a stand-alone missing scene from the deep dark places of my now Sherlock-starved brain.**

The light from the moor shines in through our small window, casting a white split between the two beds in the tiny room. For once, I am awake as he sleeps. He had been so wired since we got here that I take a second to bask in the unusual silence. I have, however always been a little perturbed by Sherlock sleeping; it feels like the calm before a storm.

I take in his dark curls splayed out across the hard grey pillow. His long slender body casting the bed sheets into beautiful stone statues. Sometimes I have to resist the urge to check that he is still breathing. For when he sleeps, it is as if something unnatural bares down upon us all.

I'm clearly in trouble and have known it for a while now. This infuriating man will not leave my consciousness. When the curtains of Baker Street are pulled, we reach the edges of ourselves and begin to merge. But it is always with a strange caution that will not leave his side. He stops it cold or I believe I imagined it entirely. Either way, we are always left with the ghost of it in the air. I can't walk away; can never conceive of ever walking away and so keep up the pretence. He had said that he didn't 'have friends' and then apologised in his own 'Sherlock' way this morning. But deep down I knew he was right. There was no word for what we were, yet the ambiguity hits me badly and I find myself angry at the smallest presumption made of us by the media, Lestrade and anyone else who cares to poke their noses in. And so we continue hovering above something immense, about to free fall in and both so very, very aware of it.

Just when I fear I may be in a grave yard of sorts, I hear the light sound of consciousness that pulls at him through his dreams. I believe they are the harmless inevitabilities of his own unique brand of sleep and so leave him to his unnervingly peaceful dreams and attend to my own illusive sleep.

_Sorry I couldn't give you boys a double._

The landlord had given us a twin room along with his 'apologies'. I didn't have the energy to correct him as I usually made a point of doing. It hadn't been worth the effort. Besides, we'd already discussed sharing a room on the journey down here for financial reasons. _Honestly, _I don't know what we do with our money. It's almost as if it is being siphoned out from under our noses. I doubt Sherlock would notice if it was. He considers such housekeeping matters my job and therefore 'dull'. As it was we had managed not to actually 'share' it until this evening, our argument had seen to that.

My attention is drawn back towards my friend in the other bed as he starts to thrash a little and utter a few nonsensical words into the silence between us. Just when I think it may settle, a shout steeped in panic rips through the dark making me jump. This time it's real words that stab at my memory of earlier that night.

"No. …It's not you… Not yet."

"Sherlock are you alight?" I receive no answer and so creep over, fully prepared to scold him for keeping me awake. But I am met with the sound of heavy breathing and a sheen of sweat across his pale forehead; his usual precision-guided hands shaking as they pull at the sheets around him in agitation. He looks petrified.

He of course had been correct, the noxious agent had unmistakably been in the gas-like fog dispersed in 'trial' at the Hollow. This had been his second dose of it. His previous reaction the evening before as we had sat affront the cosy fireplace had seen his anxiety levels reach a crisis point I'd never known existed in my friend. This evening he had again been visibly shaken by the truth that had appeared to him, as we all had. But fear was such an alien notion to Sherlock that he desperately mourned the control that it stripped him of and therefore made the world just that little more vulnerable in my eyes.

"Sherlock, wake up," I say a little louder and bring hesitant hands up to his face to gauge his temperature, then automatically to the right to check his pulse. I expect him to wake immediately at my touch and scorn my worry, but instead he leans into the cool of my palm. His pulse is highly erratic. As I suspected the chemical stimulants were leaving their mark more prominently this evening, prompting his body to work through the surplus adrenaline.

"No. Not John."

The mention of my name upon his nightmarish lips unnerves me considerably and I sit on the side of his bed and switch on the small table lamp which jerks him awake. He registers my presence immediately and with lightening reflexes grabs the wrists that have made to remove the sheets that were binding his upper body. For a second we say nothing as silver eyes sweep over my features, as he reassures himself that it is indeed me and not the person haunting his dreams. Eventually his breathing slows a little and with embarrassment removes his hands from my now marked wrists.

"What the hell was that about?" I ask him softly.

"It was _him_ John."

"What was who? You were dreaming Sherlock."

"No. Tonight at the hollow, with the exposure of the gas. I saw _him_. Moriarty. He's coming for me John." He looks sad to an 'insider' such as myself and rubs his eyes in a sleepy frustration. "He has…..…plans."

"How can you know that?"- I say uneasily. "No one has seen anything of him for a long while now Sherlock, you heard you brother."

"Don't be dull. What he's planning will need time." He takes stock of his own thoughts and I make to move from his side. He then turns to me with genuine fear in his eyes, grabbing my arms once again in a grip that chills me to the bone. "Whatever he does John. Whatever he has planned. Promise me he'll never succeed in dividing us, no matter what it makes me do."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just say it."

"Yes Sherlock, no matter what. You know I will follow you until the end. Now, please calm down."

He rests back into the pillow with some kind of relief, catching his breath but not releasing my arms straight away. "God, I need to get out of this room John. We need some fresh air". I looked at my watch; 02.30 am. I'd usually say yes to a walk, but he could see I was doubtful. I knew that he'd still go if I didn't and that there would be no chance of me sleeping whilst he wondered around the dark moor on his own. He of course could read all of this upon my features and so I give in.

I hastily don my clothes from earlier, struggling to keep up with Sherlock and just about managing to get my shoes on in time to follow him out through the bar. We both pull coats about our necks as the chilly Devonshire night wind nips at our extremities. I watch the tension ebb away from my friend slightly ahead of me as he clocks something upon the breast of the hill to our right. The flashing lights were once more sparking away creating all manner of nonsensical mores code and I shudder at the memory of my finding the local 'copping off' site.

"This way," he says to me. "I had forgotten about our mysterious light code, although I know this wouldn't have had any bearing on the time _**I**_ took to solve this case. Really John, would it have killed you to have followed up one clue?"

I halt for a second, supressing the urge to punch him. "There's nothing there Sherlock."

"U.M.Q.U.R.A," he began to chant methodically. What could it possibly mean? U.M.Q.U.R.A." Before I could stop him he had marched on ahead into the darkness. "Come along John. This was your level of enquiry and you haven't completed it."

"Listen to the tone in my voice Sherlock. I really don't think us of all people should be investigating that up there. Leave it to the Police, believe me."

"Look. The flashes, they're getting faster John." – He shouts with delight.

"Yes I can see that Sherlock, I can also see the two police cars over to the left with their lights about to bring this party to an end."

He doesn't stop his marching. "Oh God. Will you come back down here Sherlock? I am not getting caught up there. Do you know what yesterday's papers called us? 'The Crime Fighting Couple'. We have to be more careful."

"What are you rambling on about man?"

He takes a torch out of nowhere and begins to shine it through the car windscreens. Two men start to wind down their windows, looking about for the torch based intrusion and we disturb another two around behind a van.

"So, gay night on a Tuesday then it seems. Brilliant Sherlock, have you quite finished deducing the bloody obvious yet, or do you really need me to clarify?" Just as I finish my tirade, an eye piercing floodlight sprays the moor; illuminating wide eyes and flushing out a few couples that had ventured into bushes.

"Right Gentleman", says the jaded faceless tannoy that makes my ears ring. "We've had some complaints from the land owners. All of you stay where you are, thank you very much and do make sure everything's…'tucked in' as it were; the Governor is on this evening and he does like a neat round up." The seasoned individuals around us emanate a small groan and I turn to find Sherlock tucked in behind me.

"What do we do now?" –I ask.

One of the officers notices our movement. "I think we'll start with you two."

"Ah well you see officer, we were only here taking a walk," Sherlock says stepping out from behind me. "We've been investigating a case. You may have heard of me my name is…."

"A likely story. Now come on, you and your boyfriend in the back of the van. No fuss."

"Don't be ridiculous. Anyone worth their salt in the force would be able to tell from our shoes and my left ear that we have just stumbled into this scene oblivious to the …intended situation."

"Sherlock?" -my best warning voice.

"Anyone 'worth their salt' as you say would notice that you have no socks on and your friend's shirt is untucked. In the van."- says the rather portly officer.

"How ridiculous."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"DON'T answer that Sherlock."

He of course _did_ answer that, which resulted in a rather embarrassing phone call to Lestrade from a small town police station an hour later.

"Well!" says the Inspector, looking at his watch and signing the relevant paperwork needed to check us out. "This isn't exactly what I thought you two were up to this evening, but each to their own. If you know what I mean?" There's a playful tone in his voice and he watches me rub my tired eyes. Sometimes Sherlock was just too much for even me to handle.

"Don't worry John, this will go no further, I've seen to that."

"There's nothing to _go further_." I say angrily.

"There really isn't the need to explain, I didn't have nearly enough of a night cap for that. He doesn't half get you into some scrapes though. Is it worth it John? He's driven away every girlfriend you've had in the last 18 months."

"He's not driven anyone away," I say angrily.

"Right okay, I'm sorry I've said too much. Shall we go and brake out the Master then?"

Sherlock refuses the lift back to the Inn from Lestrade on behalf of both if us, stating that we never did get our intended walk. He tells us he'll meet us back at the bar. I feel Sherlock's eyes on me as he slows deliberately to take my pace. A rarity.

"You're angry," he says quietly. "Does it bother you that much John, what people think of you. What they perceive us to be 'doing' or 'not doing'?"

I say it without thinking. "It bothers me what people think of you Sherlock."

"Why?"

"How about you answer a question for me for once. Why did you say the things you did to Sarah and Jeanette, to all of them? Why do you always drive them away? And another thing; why do you never correct anyone when they assume we're…..together."

He stops my angry marching with a grip upon my arm and it jolts something deep within me; grey eyes reading as they did when I woke him just a few hours ago. I hate it when I am observed like a cold hard test tube.

"Interesting."

"What's so bloody interesting?"

"I see Lestrade finally conveyed his thoughts to you. He's been dying to get that in for ages."

"I can think for myself thank you."

"Believe me I know." He doesn't remove his hand, instead he closes the gap between us shutting out the chilly breeze. "Would it be that bad John Watson? If what they thought was happening, was in fact happening."

Time slows a fraction and I can feel the warmth emanate from his closeness. No one would ever believe me if I told them he was warm blooded.

"When I said I didn't have friends John, I meant it. You are…..I have no classification for what you are."

We're here again then. I exhale loudly and run a hand through my hair in frustration. "What are you asking of me Sherlock? I never know. You're never clear when it comes to this."

"Because _he's_ watching John. He has eyes in London I know it." –He whispers, leaning in as his cheek brushes mine gently. "It makes for more ammunition when he decides to come for me. I can't risk that. I won't risk my blogger."

"I don't care." I say breathlessly, slowly losing the battle against the force pulling me in.

"I do. I'd never allow it."

This was excruciating. I was sick of the pretence held up for so long. My hand closes around the one that still lies upon my wrist and his lips start to trace their path to mine.

"But we're not in London now."

"No John. How very observant you are."

We stay hidden by the dark path for a few minutes, just allowing ourselves the closeness. The sun makes its way across the moor; creeping slowly as if it knows our secret and wishes us time. How ridiculous this situation is, batting away the truth with a newspaper like a pesky fly all because of the threat of one man. One _man_. What could he do? Really?


	5. Chapter 5

And so on to episode 3... This is a scene re-write, but is sort of paired with the last chapter. Please R and R, it makes me happy.

**Arresting Developments**

"I don't understand why you didn't go with them. They only want to talk to you."

"He has planted an idea John. All it will take is a photograph of me being taken in for questioning and it will be the beginning of the end. Can't you see what's going on?"

He sits in his chair, hands poised elegantly below his chin. His face displaying nothing of the turmoil I hear in his voice. "They'll have been deciding whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me." He clenches his fists and leans forward in his chair. "I thought I'd have more time John. This is happening too quickly."

"What are you talking about Sherlock?"

"There are things that I wanted to say John. Some things should never be left unsaid don't you think? It's bad for the soul."

I really didn't like where this was going. "Well say them now," I say angrily, "because you have just given them the ammunition they have been waiting for."

He leans back in the chair and reaches for the book shelf, brushing some papers off a box that I had never noticed before. He takes out a small object and then rests his elbows upon his knees. I can't see what it is that he has retrieved, but he regards it with care, passing it over in the palm of his hand as if memorising its dimensions. I have never seen Sherlock regard an object with such sentiment before; apart from maybe the skull, or perhaps even myself.

"What is it you have there?"

He stands up, swallowing hard. "That night John, in Devon...What happened at the Inn..." He's embarrassed and struggles for words, begging to be put out of his misery.

We hadn't spoken of it since we had shut the door to our room that morning in order to have breakfast and catch our train back to London. That was three months ago. I knew that I did not regret it, but I could not say the same for my friend. I had made myself very clear of course, a few nights after we had returned to London. But he was remote and unreachable. He had turned me down. I had been angry and drunk, calling him many things that night, all of which were seemingly forgotten in the morning. On the colder nights, I longed to believe that it was because it frightened Sherlock to the very core that he may have found something that would illuminate a way in for Moriarty.

He doesn't continue. Instead he stands in front of me looking lost. I stare down at the pale hand now by his side and weave my own in between his fingers prising them open. It is the key fob to our room at the Inn in Devon.

"What do you have that for?"

He looks down at his hands and says it as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

"That box is all I allow myself of you."

A long pause.

I must look like a stunned fool. This needs careful handling.

"Say something please John."

"You said you didn't have it when we checked out."

"Well… I lied."

Silence.

"They charged me twenty pounds for that Sherlock."

"Yes, fine. Can we refocus please John?"

"Says the man just awaiting the police to come and take him away. You would normally be hatching a 'cunning plan' at this very moment and throwing a knotted sheet out of the window."

"There is no room for a plan John. Not with this."

"Yes, but that by definition _is_ a plan Sherlock and one that leaves you in jail and me out here. That's not a very good plan is it? We need to get out of here Sherlock. Now. Together. We clearly have things to discuss."

"I'm sorry, are you suggesting I'm wrong."

"No, I'm suggesting that you're deluded _and_ wrong if you think that allowing Lestrade to take you in to custody is somehow protecting me in all this."

It takes a moment for him to smile his sly crooked smile and move a little closer, squaring up to me in the playful way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. His eyes narrow to an expression I now know is one of affection. I lean past his view to look at the box on the shelf, feeling wisps of his hair upon my cheek. I hear him inhale the closeness.

"What else do you have in there?" I ask slyly, gesturing at the wooden box.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with now."

"All the same I think I'll just take a look," I say sounding like a six years old awaiting Christmas.

"No, I forbid it," he says challenging my movement towards the shelf.

"John!"

I slip through his grasp but I am grabbed by the waist and we tumble to the floor like children without cares. I manage to pull the box down from the shelf and get the lid open despite long limbs struggling to prevent it. He pins me down, but moves anxiously once the box is retrieved, suddenly uncomfortable with our position and his weight upon me.

I take pity on him. "Right, what do we have here?"

My playfulness is instantly lost when I pull out the ash tray he'd stolen from the palace.

"I wondered where this had gone". A moment of realisation. "You stole this for me? Sherlock there's loads of stuff in here."

"Yes, well…." he utters sheepishly, sitting up on his elbow as we lie on the floor, his eyes watching me intently.

"What's this?" I ask taking out a small piece of paper, struggling to read its faded print. It's a receipt from Angelo's.

"But we never pay for anything at his."

"Ah, very good Dr Watson." He takes it from my hand gently turning it up the other way placing it back in my grip and revealing the scribbled note.

_Nice catch Sherlock!_

"He slipped it under the candle that night. You of course were not observing."

"Sherlock Holmes. You are a kleptomaniac! Look at all this stuff."

"I am no such thing."

I am suddenly aware of how close he is. My hands don't feel like mine as they reach across and brush his cheek whilst watching his eyes. He grabs my hand and slowly brings it to his lips, pressing the palm of it to him and kissing it gently; all the while his eyes offering up his own personal apology and a hint of shame. I think to say that he should never feel he needs to apologise or ever feel shame for this, but no words leave my mouth. I move closer, pressing the rest of me up against his lean angles. The floor has never felt more comfortable as his own hand comes to rest around the back of my neck brushing the light hairs he finds there. He slowly pulls me forward.

The kiss is smooth and soft at first, but then becomes desperate as my hands begin to re-explore the territory allowed. Before I can lose myself completely he whispers softly in my ear.

"There's no time John. You wasted it all being curious."

I grab his shirt, pulling a little harder than necessary. "Me? You make this so hard, do you know that?"

"I don't mean to," he says.

Police Sirens sound in the distance. Our time is up.

"They will be coming for me John and you must let them."

"No. I refuse. We can run."

"No. I won't have you vindicated." He untangles himself from me and gets slowly to his feet leaving me cold.

"You know this will be it then? Once they have you they won't let you go. There will be no bail for a kidnapper of children. They'll retain you indefinitely and use this so called evidence to keep you."

Harsh knocking at the front door sends a lightning bolt through me and the sound of Mrs Hudson's high pitched voice ignites the panic in my eyes. The sad smile drains from his face and he and reaches for his scarf.

"No. This is not happening." I jump up after him, ready for the fight that will keep him here with me. This is a conveyer belt of inevitability now. One that won't stop and let us off and is designed to separate. _Well that wouldn't be happening._

He leans in and kisses me, taking my hands in his. It is the desperate kiss of a leaving man and he pulls away just before the barrage of police storm the living room replacing him blackness. His cold hand is ripped from mine as he is violently swung round; his wrists jerked behind his back and cuffed. Silver eyes remain on mine until they start to close in around him and I lose it.

"He's not even resisting, this is ridiculous. Let him go, you're hurting him."

"It's alright John," I hear him says gently as he is shoved toward the living room door.

"No it's not alright."

I receive a sharp finger to the chest from Lestrade halting my path to follow them. "Don't interfere or I'll arrest you too." My thoroughfare is closed off by uniformed officers and the smug face of Sally Donovan. _No. This definitely wasn't happening_. I grab the black key fob and place it down my sleeve just as a heavily set man in a cheap suit struts in and utters words that fuel my next move.

A few minutes later, I'm shoved into the side of the police car next to a lost looking Sherlock. He looks up with a hint of confusion; something I rarely get to see.

"You joining me?"

"Always. Have you not gotten that yet?"

My hand is yanked from my back and is cuffed alongside his. I take my moment and press the Devonshire room key into his palm quietly and see the recognition of it in his eyes immediately. I feel him turn it over and over in his hand as before, feeling everything I wish to say within it. He then makes up his mind, returning his eyes to me.

"A bit awkward this," he gestures to the cuffs.

"Yes, no one to bail us and all…."

"I was thinking more of our imminent and daring escape."

"At bloody last," I sigh as he reaches in through the car window and brings down London's finest.


	6. Chapter 6

**This is a direct follow on from the previous chapter and is another scene re-write from episode 3. Please R and R.**

**The Binds that Tie**

"Take my hand."

"Now people will definitely talk."

"So what if they do."

It wasn't a gesture of convenience, born of the shiny metal that now bound us. It was one of acceptance of the fact that now we were to the other what we each needed in this world. We had found each other and we would not be letting go. No matter what happened to us this night.

I catch the smirk that shines in his eyes despite the dark and I lose my concentration briefly letting the gun slip from my grasp. _Idiot_.

"Leave it, there's no time."

He pulls us in to the alley, our breaths hitting the cold air as our backs press against the brick wall. He darts around the corner every few seconds to check for our pursuers.

"Have you seen this?"- I say, picking up the paper from the top of the pile that awaits it's keen, salivating readers. "Some guy called Rich Brook 'spilling the beans' on you it seems." I steady my voice and regret the question as soon as it leaves my lips. "Who is he?"

"John, some things _are_ best left unsaid. It was a time that would swallow me up and split me out on to London's dirty streets. He was a regrettable, insignificant part of it. I know you won't be reading it yourself and I thank you for it. The story is true enough, but not involving a man of that name. He died of an overdose 3 years ago. It matters very little. There is only one person that would have surrendered the details of our 'arrangement' to Moriarty."

"Mycroft? Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

He turns coldly, catching me off guard with the old familiar anger and defence shining in his eyes.

"What for? I expected no less from him John, it shouldn't surprise you. What is your need to over-sentimentalise everything? It really is very tedious. Must you always be a pup at my heels?"

Before I know what has happened he is replaced by blackness as he leaps at the jagged metal fence to our side. Flinging himself over it, he seemingly forgets the hand-cuffs attaching us and pulls at my arm as it stretches above the cold bars. I shout in pain as the over eagerness rips at my bad shoulder that has already been extended out of its comfort zone.

"Argh. Sherlock wait, we're going to need to coordinate."

The realisation of causing me pain hits his eyes hard and he curses. I see the strain in his eyes in that moment and he leans forward placing his forehead to the bars and takes a deep breath.

"Forgive me John."

"Listen Sherlock. Can't we just… go somewhere? A hotel maybe? I know you keep a credit card in your brother's name. He wouldn't notify anyone, I will be seeing to that believe me."

"You have no idea how wonderful that sounds John, really you don't. But we have to finish this, or it will be finished for us and I don't care to think of what that may mean. We can't be distracted. Not so late in the game."

"I think it's too late for that," I say pressing myself to the cold bars that now separate us. He leans the rest of the way and places a long kiss at my hair line. He remains there long enough for us to forget that we are stood in a filthy alley divided by the fence. It feels like the entire world could be separating us in that moment and the rain on the side of my face tingles in harsh contrast to his warm skin upon the other where he nestles.

"I believe you are probably right," says a muffled whisper in my ear. He pulls back and inhales deeply. "But all the same, come on now move to your right. We need to speak to the repellent Miss Riley. I'll explain on the way."

There is no one home, much to our detriment and so we set to searching the small neat apartment looking for anything that would shine a light upon the link between this woman and Moriarty. Once we have satisfied ourselves at the rummage we stand in the middle of the small flat.

My shoulder is aching horribly from the chase and I struggle to hold it comfortably. Sherlock observes me closely then lifts his free hand to my neck and shoulder. Warmth spreads where his hand lies and he rubs it gently easing out the pressure. I hang my head in relief allowing it to fall on his chest and his hand moves slowly to rest upon my neck.

"Better?"

"Much. Thank you."

Before I know it, we have been dissolved by the tension between us. It seems this is the inevitable end of our close proximities these days. We are lost to the other in rough kisses and one-handed grasps. I growl in frustration at the constraint of the metal about our wrists.

"Damn it, I want these cuffs off."

"Oh I don't know. I'm becoming rather attached." He says using his side to pull at the metal gently guiding us towards the sofa.

"Very funny."

"I haven't heard you complain before John."

"I don believe that this is the kind of thing that one should get up to in someone else's flat. It's not considered very polite Sherlock. How long do you think until she'll be back?"

He straightens up. "Well, judging by the car insurance documents on the coffee table, she's just renewed and therefore has probably driven to work this morning. There isn't a train station close by. She works for a pitiful red top paper; the headquarters of which all reside around the central London area. Traffic around Canada Square is horrendous due to a burst water main and she'll have hit rush hour traffic and so….."

"I retract the question. Shut up and sit down with me. I have a feeling it will be a long while until we get another chance."

I pull him down upon the couch and he hits the light switch on the way down plunging us into heavenly darkness.

Around twenty minutes later there's a key in the door. There's little time to compose ourselves as the redhead hits the light switch. Sherlock turns to stare in annoyance at being interrupted.

"Is it too late to go on the record?"-He growls. "Congratulations, the scoop on Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."


	7. Chapter 7

This is turning into a multi-chaptered story now….It's not completely based on my theory of how it was done, but comes close. Please read and review

**Best laid plans **

And then there was nothing.

This strange _nothing_ gradually turned into the harsh ringing that now exists permanently within my ears.

Slowly I become aware of the rain; its gentle seeping tracing my neck and sneaking down the space between my shirt and skin. It was this that was the only tell that I, John Watson, was still alive.

I don't remember making the call to Lestrade. All I knew was that I needed to leave; leave this space before I could never leave again. My eyes weren't able to move from the concrete occupied by his blood as it began to mix with the rain. It turned the velvet red image before me to a hazy pink blur as I quell the urge to throw myself at where it lies; this last piece of him.

He was gone.

There was no need to follow even if I could. He would not be coming back; all my educated senses told me that.

Unreliable legs unable to hold me up any longer give in their helpless task, sliding me down the stone wall to the wet ground. I have no concept of how long I've been sat here.

A police car pulls up to the edge of the pavement where I sit. There is a distant discussion from inside and the sound of a car door snaps me to slight awareness. Lestrade hurriedly crosses the path; all puddles and umbrella. I don't hear his words at first, just feel the weight of a hand upon my shoulder; his expression as dark as the rain-filled sky.

"John. I… Are you alright?"

No words come to me and my head lolls on his firm, thick shoulder. All energy has left me.

"Come on, let's get you out of here."

Strong dependable arms help me to my feet and I suddenly can't bear to be touched. Brushing off my harsh gesture, he holds his hands up to appease me and steps to one side, clearing my path to the car.

Donovan stands at the passenger side, wringing her hands tightly as she tries not to stare at the blood that is being cordoned off. Guilt has taken over her harsh, unfriendly features and she pleads with me in that second to make her life easier. _Her life_.

"I can't. Not her. Not with her."

He steps in front of me and brushes her out of the way, opening the door for me. "Get a cab Sally."

"But Sir…"

"Go," he shouts. "He doesn't want you in this bloody car and to be honest I'm having a hard time looking at you right now. Get a cab."

I sit in the back; my forehead against the cool window trying desperately to stem the feeling of nausea. Hushed words come from the front seat where Lestrade steels guilty glances at me through the mirror. I guess he's checking that I haven't turned to dust. I feel I may be just that now.

"It's confirmed Sir," says the uniformed officer driving the car. He presses his finger to the radio in his ear. "Eye witnesses state suicide Sir."

We pull up to the Yard.

"John, listen to me. I have to go in to the station, just for a minute. Then I'll drive you back to Baker Street myself alright. There's no need for your statement right now." He gets no answer apart from my barely managed nod and turns to the officer. "Stay with him."

The car suddenly feels tiny and I scramble at the handle, my knuckles cold and white, my chest tight and heavy. _God I need some air_.

That's when I see them across the road; Sally paying a cabbie and Anderson joining her on the steps of CID. He sees me and mumbles something to Sally, their eyes meeting mine for a second. Before I know it I'm across the road, standing at the bottom of the steps; Anderson turning to see me there and starting to back away.

"He was never right in the head John. We all know that."

The punch lands him beautifully on the chin and he is a poor fight back. He reminds me of a man I'd seen drop out from the army; falling to the floor like a bag of bones. I'd never been one for bare fighting; it had always seemed unnecessary, vulgar and unintelligent. _How much I didn't understand_.

Sally shouts and the blood pours. I am unable to stop there and so pin him to the pavement and hit him a second and third time. Strong hands pull at my chest and I'm dragged from Anderson by Lestrade and the other officer. They hold me against the wall; my knuckles bleeding and my breath ragged.

"Not this way John. Don't make me have to take you in."

Donavan kneels at the pavement with tissues held to Anderson's face. "Arrest him Lestrade, now. What are you waiting for? Look what he's done, he's just as mad."

"He's broken my bloody nose," says a voice through thick nostrils.

Lestrade takes in my pale face then relaxes his restraining arm just slightly.

"You should be more careful with your footing Anderson. It's so easy to take a tumble down these steps."

As the Inspector pulls me towards the car, the effects from the adrenaline hit with force and I twist from his grip in time to throw up. As my palm hits the wall to steady myself, I barely register the pain in my hand from punching a man senseless. _So was this how I was without him?_ It had been so long that I couldn't remember the John Watson before Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he didn't exist. I don't believe he exists now.

He gives me a minute to straighten up.

"I need a drink," I say; my voice shaky with lack of use.

"I don't want to take you back to Baker Street. You're coming home with me until we can get hold of someone. Is there anyone you'd like me to call?"

From somewhere deep, a bitter laugh reaches my lips.

"Not anymore."

"John. Say it now. Come on. Nothing you can say will make me feel worse. I know my part in this."

I grab him by the jacket.

"You left him with nothing. You've left me with nothing."

_The rain starts. _

_His pale, pleading hand stretches out to mine from the roof of St Barts. I'm sure that if I could reach just a little further I could grab his hand and convince him not to leave. But when I do, blood runs down his chiselled face and he is rolled on to his back by descending strangers. Where they come I am unsure, but I think I recognise one woman from some distant memory. But no. I couldn't be counted on for anything in those few minutes of black._

_His slender hand was cold and almost blue. Yet, when I had clutched at his wrist there had been something unfamiliar about what lay beneath my fingers. But he had been prised from me as quickly as I had gotten hold of him and something inside of me exploded into thousands of irretrievable splinters. _

I wake with a start on an unfamiliar sofa two days later; his name on my lips and this ever present nightmare drilling a hole in my skull. A blanket that smells slightly of cigarette smoke has been placed across me and an empty bottle of whiskey out on the table with three glasses. _Three?_ Lestrade's wife would not have joined us in our night of liquor and my silent tears.

Lestrade had fulfilled his threat of taking me back to his place where his kind wife had made up the spare room. I imagine she would have been less understanding had she known "Just one night" for this shell of a man before them was going to become a few. I had been taken back to Baker Street the day after Sherlock's death, but I had known it was a mistake immediately.

I had sat in my arm chair for an hour; the violin on the desk taunting me as I replayed it all out over and over in my head. I had packed a few things including the violin and hugged Mrs Hudson promising that I would be in touch. She had cried and I couldn't stay to watch I had to be selfish. Instead I had gone to Paddington Station intending on getting a train to Harry's but couldn't do that either. An hour later Lestrade had appeared at my station bench; turning his car keys over and over in his hand.

I looked up at him with minimal surprise.

He pointed at a security camera nearby and picked up my bag. "Mycroft called me."

I become aware of what has awoken me from the alcohol-induced sleep upon the strange sofa. A perturbed looking Lestrade stands over me. My throat is sore from shouting and my head lies thickly in my hands.

"John. Are you alright?"

"Why are there three glasses?"

"John I think you should eat something and get a shower."

"The bloody glasses Lestrade. Was he here; the prodigal brother?"

"Alright, keep your voice down. Yes he was here. He wanted to talk to you. Alone. But you were in no state so he left saying he'd changed his mind anyway."

"What was it the wretch wanted? You should have woken me; he's returned none of my calls. Not so much as even sought to release his body and we all know he can get whatever he wants. Almost anything. How could he leave him there Greg?"

"Well it seems fitting I guess. He lived for that place John."

"No, it's cold and miserable. That wasn't him, not really. He should be at Baker Street with me. Pacing up and down annoying the hell out of everyone. This…. this can't be happening Greg."

The sobriety that has been absent from my brain the last few days stings with the harsh clarity of a cold bullet. I pull the blankets from me and stand too quickly. I'm uncoordinated and knock a glass from the coffee table.

"I need to see him."

"No John. Not a good idea right now, It's the middle of the night."

"No? You don't get to tell me what to do. You have no idea what we were, what has been taken from us both."

"Then tell me John. You need to talk about this. You need to start processing it, we all do."

I put my shoes on. "Thank your wife for her hospitality for me and do apologise for my behaviour. I'd like my gun back now please. I know you took it from Baker Street."

A text message rings through the stuffy living room.

"Let me guess," I say. "He's telling you not to let me leave. You know he'll be listening right? Don't be slow Lestrade."

"Don't assume he's not hurting John. This isn't you. You're not cruel."

I pick up my bag and the violin.

"Maybe _he_ was the one keeping _me _human. Did you all think of that?"

"Where are you going to go John?"

I don't answer him. Instead I pass through the hallway to the front door. Turning the handle, I'm met with two large smartly -dressed gentlemen who proceed to grab me from either side. I don't get time to shout as I feel the needle grace my jugular.

To be continued…


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks for the reviews **

**Chapter 8**

**Close to nowhere**

I wake the same way of the last few days; my throat dry and head pounding. Only this time it's not self-inflicted, and someone has kindly removed the keys and phone from my pocket. I've been placed in the recovery position and laid out on something more comfortable than I deserve. It allows me briefly to imagine that I am back at Baker Street, with soft warm breath gracing the back of my neck and long arms wound tightly about my chest. Instead reality stabs through the flimsy trick that is played on me in the place between wakefulness and sleep, leaving the last few days to descend upon my heart like concrete.

I find myself in a beautifully decorated period room with a large sash window and billowing velvet curtains. Dark oak furniture frames the room's panels and old tapestries adorn the walls. It all smells of money, power, prestige and social standing.

Mycroft.

Large silver locks hang from the windows and the coloured glass has been recently reinforced. My shoe laces are missing and my trusty Swiss Army knife no longer in my possession.

Suicide watch. How novel.

I try the door to find it locked from the outside. Before I can begin pounding, a small intercom buzzes from its position on the wall.

"I wouldn't start a scene if I were you John. Your Doctors are under strict instructions to keep you safe and they take a rather 'chemical' approach to that as you have already seen."

"You return none of my phone calls and then pull a stunt like this?"

"It's for your own good Doctor."

"For my own good? You drugged and abducted me! Let me out of here right now or I'll break this door down. You know I'm capable."

"Not until I am satisfied that you mean yourself no permanent harm. I made my brother a promise and I intend to keep it."

"Stop hiding behind this damn intercom and face me man." I bang loudly on the door and test it with my shoulder. But it's my shouting that seems to drive a response from him, and quickly. Within seconds there is the sound of a lock being undone.

He strides in with a falsity of confidence and his head held high. But as I take in his appearance properly he looks slightly drawn and pale, with his usual impeccable finish slightly _off_ to the trained eye. The last conversation I had with this man plays over in my head and with it the ease of which he betrayed my dear friend stabs at my numbed senses. I lose the last little bit of control I have and pin the elder Holmes to the wall.

Out of nowhere, two large men appear at my side intent on repeating their previous 'care plan'. But Mycroft holds them off with the smallest motion of his hand and they stand down like trained dogs. My hands feel the increased rise and fall of his chest as they hold him by the collar, desperate to claw back some justice for the man I have lost. I believe it would give me great pleasure in hitting this stony man right now; something I know Sherlock could never bring himself to do. Theirs was a war of words.

"Let the Doctor say what he must."

"I assure you Mycroft, I will not be doing away with myself just yet. I have things to do. Things to put right, for him."

"So you didn't believe him then, when he said he was a fake?"

I stare at him with my own disbelief. "Don't you ever ask me that question again do you hear?"

"You're forgetting I've heard the phone call John; his 'note'."

It's some sort of test that I can't figure out and he waits for my reaction but gets only a stony silence in return. He removes himself from my grasp and I slide down the door to hold my head in my hands.

"Will you do me a couple of favours John?"

"Not until you do a few for me. Some things I shouldn't have to ask you to do. Have his body released. You can speed this up, don't pretend otherwise."

He takes a second to stare at a spot on the wall behind me then answers quickly.

"Alright John. And the second?"

"Help me find Moriarty. He's scattered back into the woodpile and the game is not over, not for me. I owe him a bullet to the head."

"James Moriarty…is in hand. I assure you."

"No." I shake my head slowly; a tear running down my cheek and not caring who knows it. "Not good enough Mycroft. It's all too late. You left it all too late."

He stares at his shoes; a gesture of admittance and guilt alien to his persona. I had never seen a likeness between the two brothers before; I had always thought he lacked the younger Holmes' sharp angles and harsh beauty. But there was something in his expression now that reminded me somewhat of Sherlock. When he believed that no one was looking, he could appear as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. People always thought that it was the chase that my friend had loved, but I was the only one to be allowed his true hidden wish; to be useful. To be human. I had always been watching when he though no one had been paying attention. I had always seen who he was to become.

"My brother was lucky to have you John; in this situation he had gotten himself into."

"Situation?" I shout. "He's dead, you machine of a man. He was your brother and you sold your soul, and his for that matter for a glimpse into the mind of a mad man. What does that make you?"

"Keep your voice down John."

It is a stand-off of silence, then some sort of alarm sounds from down the hall and the two burly men stand to attention awaiting their new instructions.

"Get him out of here. Now."

"Wait, what is that Mycroft? What are you up to here?"

The suited monkeys each take an elbow and steer me to the door.

"I believe you said you would do a favour for me John," he says straightening his tie in the mirror and smoothing down his hair.

"Tell me what's going on."

"Shut him up for God's sake and take him to where we discussed. Now. Hurry please."

More commotion stems from down the hall.

"My God. You have him don't you? You have Moriarty."

As I'm pulled from the room I catch two more run to a room at the end of the long hall way. A considerable amount of noise emanates from its walls, none of which I can make out before I am hauled away.

"You wait for me Mycroft" I shout after him. "You must let me speak to him before you see him to his end."

An hour later the rain hits the large pane of glass behind as I sit uncomfortably on the smooth leather chair. I believe it to be the most daylight I've seen since _that_ day and it stings my eyes.

"Why today?"-She says.

"You want to hear me say it?"

I had not gone quietly. Talking over what had happened to me on my return from Afghanistan had been hard enough. But this, this was brutal and cruel. I was not ready to work through what had happened, not yet and she knew it. I had stopped going to see her two weeks after I had met Sherlock. I had been high on new energy and she had been full of warnings about 'inappropriate attachments'.

"Eighteen months since your last appointment."

"You read the papers, watch the TV. You know why I'm here. He summoned you. I hope you're being paid admirably."

She ignores my comment. "What happened john?"

Lestrade is waiting once I am allowed to leave; my two 'guards' satisfied at my compliance once I had been shown back to his car.

"They have him Greg."

"Who?"

"Moriarty. Mycroft has him for his own purposes and I'm afraid he'll be killed before I can get to him. Before we can seek to undo some of this. I have to go back."

He lets out a deep breath and places both hands tightly upon the steering wheel in front. He squints through the rain as it hits the windscreen.

"He said that you would say this."

"I heard him Greg, I'm sure of it. We have to go to Mycroft's estate. I know you believe the same as I, even though you haven't said it. Tell me that you know Sherlock was lying when he said he was a fake. I know you will have read the transcript of our last phone call."

"You have to understand, it's difficult for me right now. I'm not at Scotland Yard. They've suspended me and I'm up on charges of misconduct."

"Then you have as little to lose as I have."

"John please, this isn't good for you."

"Damn it Greg, you owe him too."

"Stop this John. Just stop." He turns to me with sorrow in his eyes and his voice loses its harsh edge. "Tomorrow morning. 8 am."

"What?"

"A quiet funeral. A few attendees only."

To be continued….


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Please R and R **

The drive back into central London was a silent one. Lestrade stopped off at Baker Street proclaiming that I would need a suit for tomorrow morning and that I couldn't turn up looking like the wreck that sat in his car presently. We were both clearly having difficulty contemplating the hell that awaited us tomorrow.

Perhaps there was another option; it could after all be my only chance to get to Moriarty with Mycroft being absent for the funeral. There was a possibility that the elder Holmes was still holding the madman at his Surrey Estate. Although for what end purpose, I was still unsure. A unique brand of revenge I imagine. I don't believe I'll ever really trust another human being after Mycroft spilled his tales of his trade off with Moriarty.

It would mean that I didn't get to say goodbye.

This idea once firmly planted in my brain, festered and bubbled over until the burning need to destroy Moriarty inch by inch, on my own terms threatened to tear me apart. Something other than Sherlock to orbit around. I knew what I needed to do. I had to at least try.

I waited until the first show of sunlight and left a note on the folded-up blanket on Lestrade's sofa.

_Greg. I'm sorry. Please don't make a fuss. I'm going to walk about London for the day. It's how he would prefer me to remember him. Tell Mycroft I'm sorry._

_J_

The lie was surprisingly easy to tell. Normally I abhor lies of any kind. Sherlock had once told me that it was my simplicity that had drawn him to me. It only occurred to me now what he had meant.

I glance out of Lestrade's third floor apartment to see the familiar Government-plated car across the street; keeping its silent surveillance over me. I don't stand a chance of getting where I need if I am caught, so I go the bathroom and climb out of the window onto the ledge below. I make it unnoticed to the waiting taxi at the end of the alley.

Sneaking out before his funeral feels like the biggest of betrayals, but only to myself. I had to believe that Sherlock would never care much for a send- off. I imagine he would say it was pointless and sentimental and that this was one of the biggest failings of all human contact. Anything to tell myself that getting a chance to punish the man that saw to his end was more important than getting to say the things I needed. The things that I will never get to say.

Thirty minutes later sees the taxi pull up to the edge of the dense wood in a leafy part of Surrey. A sprint of around another thirty minutes brings me to the back of Mycroft's looming Estate. I take out a small electronic devise that Sherlock had once produced as an 'antidote' to the cameras that his brother had inflicted upon our living quarters and attach it to the one scanning the fence. I look at my watch and quell the pain in my chest as I imagine Mrs Hudson and Lestrade standing outside the church; one less to attend the small funeral for a man that touched so many lives in a way that he would never wish to comprehend. It would be starting now, and apparent that I wouldn't be coming.

I concentrate on my reason for being here; revenge. A fire that wouldn't be put out until I knew why Sherlock had thrown himself to his death. After all, I had been a resourceful soldier. One that, during my time in Afghanistan had been task forced to a number of operations. All of which had resulted in 'extracting' information from some very nasty individuals. It was not something I was proud of, but the Utilitarian inside me justified my actions with the ease of a politician. This time, it would feel different and I would have to be sure I wanted to live with that part of myself.

It's strangely quiet as I dart through the corridors and make my way up to the second floor where I had heard the commotion when here last. It was still now, and the echoes of even my lightest footsteps on the creaky polished floors sounded like an earthquake beneath me. I crouch at the top of the steps and take out my gun; checking it ready for the task ahead.

Light spills out from under the door at the end of the dark corridor. I make towards it, but a hand comes out of nowhere and covers my mouth.

"John? Think about what you are about to do. This isn't you."

"Greg. How did you….? This is nothing to do with you now. You ignored my call for help you can go to hell."

"I'm telling you John, it will feel good for three seconds then you have to live with yourself. A misguided revenge won't bring him back. I know you."

"I can't…. This has to have some meaning. It's so…. Meaningless. Unless I get to stop him. The law can't punish this man. It is my job now."

"I don't pretend to know what happened John. I don't pretend to understand how all this lead to where we are now. But I know this is not what he wanted for you."

"You know nothing of what he wanted for me." I make towards the door.

"He came to see me. Do you know that?"- He calls after me.

I stop. "What?"

"He asked something of me John. Asked me to watch out for you."

"I don't understand. Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Why do you think? Guilt. I could have stopped him. I should have seen what was about to happen."

"It wasn't suicide for God sake Lestrade. I can't explain it but I know he didn't mean to leave me. When will you understand? It was _HIM_" – I shout pointing at the closed door just feet away from me now. So close.

"I know you John. Walk away. Grieve for Sherlock then never look back. You are heading in a direction that will only destroy you further. You have too much of a heart for this, it's why you left the Army. You will live with it; what Sherlock did. But not like this. You could spend the rest of your life tracking down all the men working with Moriarty and it would still never bring him back. You don't want to become _this_. Stop battling Mycroft. Stop battling yourself. Let us just go and say goodbye."

He sees the deflation in my eyes and takes a tentative step towards me. He gently takes the gun from my hand that now hangs loosely at my side.

"There's no time," I whisper through tears.

000

We burst through the doors to the church, soaking from the rain just in time to see a sleek black coffin raised by men I don't recognise. All the fight leaves me and I stand and watch as he is taken past and out into the cold rain. My fingers reach out and touch the smooth black marble as it glides through me.

Mycroft catches my eye and nods gently; thanking me for coming, eventually. Guilt claws at my consciousness for the stoic brother left behind. It was a beautiful country church and one I could tell was full of a family's memories; good and bad. Sherlock's father was buried here.

I had been so selfish.

How hard this must have been for Mycroft. The man had more reason than me to see to Moriarty to his end. The realisation of his part was strewn across his face whenever he looked at me. I slip into one of the pews and close my eyes as the small precession makes its way to the grave yard. He squeezes my shoulder as he passes behind the coffin.

"_The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't."_

"_Yes."_

"_Say it now."_

"_No. Sorry I cant."_

"_It's time that you did John. It's important."_

I make my way to the young grave with Mrs Hudson gripping tightly to my arm. She holds bright flowers and says bright words. I say the things that bind me to him and tie me to grief. But when it comes to saying _goodbye_, the words fail to come and I know it is because I don't mean them. I still don't believe that this isn't all some magical trick with me at its centre; being played like a pawn in a game I still don't understand. I never really understood, I was always too slow for him. I'd know if he were alive. I'd feel it in every pore of my skin. In every breath that wracked my body. I'm sure of it.

Two weeks later my rucksack is packed on the hotel bed, along with the violin case. I stand in front of the mirror. The uniform feels like an old friend, but the reflection has changed a bit. There is a knock at the door.

"Mycroft. I'm about to leave actually, I'll be late for sign-in."

He steps past me anyway.

"You haven't been back to Baker Street since…."

"No. I can't. In fact there's nothing for me in London now. I presume you know all this already. Is that why you're here?"

I turn to face him. He's deathly pale with hands shaking.

"Do you think he would forgive me John?"

I regard him closely. "I can't answer that Mycroft. Only you can answer that."

"I don't believe that he would." He swallows hard. "I think John, that…..I've made a terrible error."

"Well. I'm not going to pretend that you didn't and that he paid for it with his life. But I know that it would have been a difficult decision, even for you. It was your job. Your life. He was mine, that's all I have to say on the matter now. I must be going."

He stops me at the door with a cracking voice. "You're right John. You were his life." He thinks carefully about his next words. "You _are_ his life. It's why he did what he did."

"Mycroft?"

"It wasn't easy. It had to be done correctly, properly. You see John. It hasn't all gone strictly to plan and I had to step in."

Happiness soon, I promise. To be continued….


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry I've taken ages to get around to continuing. More Mycroft in this, I find his character quite interesting. Obviously this is a deviation from Sherlock's path in the fall, but it kind of includes some of how I think it was done… Leave a comment **

**Chapter 10**

My army ruck-sac falls to the ground and I steady myself on the door frame feeling the darkness that I was desperately trying to run from creep back into my soul.

"Talk to me now Mycroft."

"You must promise to listen to my reasons John. You must understand."

I whip round to study his face and see an unnatural panic in his eyes.

"Oh God. Tell me the truth now Mycroft."

He swallows hard and gingerly lowers himself down on the edge of the hotel room bed, his long white knuckles squeezing the ornate umbrella handle.

"I knew he was going to jump John. It was planned meticulously with the help of Molly Hooper. The fact that Moriarty shot himself enabling us to use his body as a decoy for the 'fall' was pure luck. Although I'm sure Sherlock would argue that there is no such thing as luck."

"You…You're saying that Moriarty died up on that roof? That can't be right; they found no trace of a death up there."

"Well they wouldn't would they. Molly took Moriarty's body down to ground level along with the mask he had in his pocket and waited in the back of the open-top laundry van that had been acquired. I had a team clean up on the roof."

"Mask? What….. mask? I don't believe this."

"Try to think John, really. Have you not thought how it was that Moriarty was able to kidnap those children from the boarding school and have them believe it was Sherlock? I read the notes from the Yard. That little girl screamed her head off when Sherlock went to question her. A very clever game on old Jim's part don't you think? Moriarty had a very high spec mask made of Sherlock's face."

I snarl my last warning of impatience. "Mycroft wherever you're going with this ridiculousness get there quicker. I have a flight to catch."

"John. It wasn't Sherlock's body on the pavement. He jumped alright, but his was not the hand you grasped at the end. It was Jim Moriarty's body with the mask upon his cold features."

I feel like I'm about to be sick. _This can't be happening._

"But I saw him Jump Mycroft. I watched him, called his name. He told me…. He said goodbye to me."

"That he did John. That he did. But you didn't see him hit the ground did you? I know you were conveniently knocked to the ground yourself. Think about it. Was Sherlock very specific about where you watched him from? He did jump from that building, only it was timed so that he would be swallowed by the laundry van parked on the pavement. A supposedly soft landing of sorts. Molly then rolled out Moriarty's body from the same laundry vehicle, having ensured earlier that his wounds would match Sherlock's fatal fall to the pavement. Sherlock was correct she really is one to be trusted. Moriarty of course passed for Sherlock. I'm afraid you were our ultimate test John. If we didn't fool you, we wouldn't fool anyone."

I feel dizzy, the adrenaline sending my heart in to all kinds of strange rhythms. I couldn't make sense of it.

"But, I felt his hand. I saw his face. It was Sherlock." My words sound slow as if uttered by someone else.

"You saw a man that was made to look like Sherlock. Don't punish yourself John you were emotional. Did you not think it was strange how quickly those medical personal arrived with the trolley to take him away? And how they did not wish you to get too close to your friend clearly in the last throws of life with next to nothing that could be done for him?"

"Stop this."

"Didn't my brother ever share with you his rather loyal band of irregulars and down-and-outs? In London you can pay people to do most things John, did this whole game not teach you that? They were just actors with a role to play, as was Sherlock and indeed as were you. Don't be mistaken though, he jumped for you, you were correct in that. There were men with their weapons trained upon you with orders shoot if Sherlock didn't jump and forfeit the game."

I raise my head a little from where it now rests against the sturdy door frame. Trying my best to remain standing, the words stick in my dry throat.

"Oh god, my god he is isn't he? Say it. I need to hear you say it this second. He's alive isn't he?"

He stands from the bed and adjusts his suit in the mirror so that he may reassemble his armour and reconstruct the layers leaving me to sink to my knees.

"John. You must listen very carefully to me now do you hear? We had argued, my brother and I that afternoon. He had told me of his plan and set it up with Molly and his homeless network. He knew that Moriarty wouldn't stop until we was dead, or worse, disgraced in your eyes. The instructions were that I came to get you as soon as the jump had taken place so that you could be taken to Sherlock and you could leave London together if you so wished. Sherlock felt your reaction had to be believable."

He pauses for a second to glance at me with a hint of pity.

"Jumping into the hospital laundry van was always a massive risk but you know my brother, he believed he could calculate it correctly. Once in the back of the laundry van he was to attend to any injuries with Miss Hooper and then you were both to leave."

"You didn't agree with the plan did you? Please just tell me where he is."

"John. There are men still out there who will stop at nothing to complete their boss's orders, even with that man no longer existing. I told Sherlock that I wanted him to stay _dead_ for a while with no lose ends to trace. He stood a good chance then of finding the rest and making them pay. I don't know the exact nature of your relationship with my brother, but he made it clear that wasn't an option without you. My brother often suffered with distraction believe it or not John and I'm afraid I saw you as just that. He was emphatic that you were to know the truth and I could tell that he couldn't bear the thought of leaving you. "

"I need to see him. Please."

"I'm afraid I've indeed kept him from you John. I went against his plan. I know now that this was a mistake."

"Just tell me he's alright."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Sherlock's jump went quite wrong. He was rather….emotional and I assume it made it difficult to calculate where he was to land. It was always a difficult gamble. Do you recall it skulking away from the devastation? I was supposed to come and get you no matter what. But I didn't. I went against his wishes thinking it for the best. And now…He's comatose John. Severe damage to the brain they tell me. They have advised me to…..turn him off. Help me John. I don't know the right course of action."

I had gotten him back and lost him again all within a few minutes and my inner most protection mechanisms were saying I hadn't the strength to say goodbye a second time.

Seconds of silence pass as I try and process this new information. Christ, that empty coffin, empty grave. I had spilled my heart out to that grave.

"When you had me drugged a few days ago and taken to your estate. That was him that you had in the room down the hall. They were all medical staff weren't they? You let me believe it was Moriarty you were holding. "

He doesn't answer, instead walking slowly to where I'm knelt on the carpet trying to keep a grasp on consciousness. He looks down at me, eyes displaying an embarrassment and confusion at such a physical outlet of emotional state. He should count himself lucky. It could just have easily tipped into me strangling the man. _God I need to see his face again. He'd done this for me._

He slowly rolls up his sleeves whilst observing the mess that lies at his feet and places his hands underneath my arms to stand me. I let him, watching from the celling where my brain had taken up residence.

"Come along John. I need you to compose yourself if I'm to take you to see him."

To be continued…..


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

It was pretty hopeless; he hadn't lied to me about that at least. He was being kept in a large room devoid of natural light and filled with the same dark oak that had occupied my holding room down the hall all those weeks ago. Mycroft had transformed it into, from what I could tell was a state of the art unit to care for him. Or hide him.

"I know what you are going to say Doctor," –says Mycroft. A man I presume is one of the privately hired doctors managing Sherlock's care hands him a chart to peruse.

"He should be in a hospital", I say, shuffling closer to the figure in the bed whom I am told is my friend. I run a hand over the cold pale arm as a nurse prises open a heavy lid and shines a pen torch into a glass-like eye.

Mycroft looks up to see me with his brother and observes my hand touching his.

"Would you like to see his scans for yourself? I'm sure Dr Cobb here will…"

"Could you leave us please?" My cracked whisper is barely audible over hissing of the machinery.

I feel a slight hesitation from Mycroft, but he finally nods his consent and they all leave me to my misery.

I survey what I see before me then walk slowly up to where the ventilator does its work. He has old bruising to the left side of his skull and his dull black curls have been partly shaved for surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain. A clean dressing covers the scars. I'm totally stunned and unable to process the fact that the man in front of me was the same whose funeral I had nearly missed. The same I had pictured lying six feet under for near enough the last month.

I pick up the observation chart and make a conscious effort to think clearly.

_No discernible brain activity. Pupils fixed and unreactive to light with a Glasgow Coma Score of 8. One incidence of re-emergence three weeks ago. Extremely agitated and heavy sedation and ventilatory support reinitiated. Unable to remove ventilatory support. No further re-emergence expected_. _Next of Kin advised to make 'end-of-life' arrangements._

End-of-life arrangements. They are advising Mycroft to turn him off.

I take a deep breath. It appears that the jump not only resulted in a massive head injury but also a fractured shoulder and wrist, along with a punctured lung. His arms were black and blue from countless needles for the many drugs that were keeping him alive and stable. But the blood was pumping and I felt my own heart refill with warm blood at that fact.

The thought of him waking three weeks ago and possibly being aware of my absence is horrid. I hope that if he was cognizant that he would have realised that it was through no choice of my own. Three weeks ago would have been about the time Mycroft had me locked down the hall in fear that I was about to harm myself over Sherlock's 'suicide'. _I had been so close and not known it._

Still. I try to tell him I'm here, try and tell him that I'm sorry I haven't been and that it wasn't of my choosing. That I didn't know, how could I have known? Mycroft had disagreed with Sherlock's plan and he had been left without me when it had truly mattered. But no words come out of my mouth. So instead I pull up a chair, tangle my hands in his and rest my head on his forearm allowing hot tears to stream down his cool skin.

I suddenly realise how tired I am. It feels like I have been hovering above myself watching this sorry aftermath play on as if I should be somewhere else. Now I know where. Alcohol and sleeping pills had been a prompt for the little sleep received in the past few weeks of his 'death'. Even then the nightmares of Sherlock's outstretched hand from the top of St Bart's had haunted the flimsy unconsciousness. But now I feel true rest clawing at my eyes and I give in to it gladly, my head finally resting upon his bed.

This time I don't dream of Sherlock's bruised body or the outstretched hand. I don't dream of Baker Street and Mrs Hudson's wonderful breakfasts. I don't even dream of New Year's Eve with Sherlock playing the violin so beautifully that I had fallen asleep, only to be woken by him checking my pulse and brushing lips against my ear. Nor in fact the first true night we had spent in each other's company. Adler had drugged him and he had slept curled up against my side, willing the room to stop spinning and wishing me not to leave due to some fear that she would return.

_I was back in our room at the Cross Keys Inn nestled in the Devonshire Moor. It was the night Sherlock had confessed his fear that Moriarty was watching us in London. He admitted that he hadn't wanted to make a move to resolve 'our little problem' while there was a chance it would leave us vulnerable to our enemies. As we had stood exploring each other in the half light of the country lane, I reminded him that we weren't in London at the present and not due to leave until the next morning. _

_His admirable resolve had cracked and we made our excuses to Lestrade who had been waiting for us to return to the bar and slipped up to our twin room. He had fumbled with the key in the door; a move quite unlike him as I breathed heavy words into his ear from behind in anticipation of the boundary we were about to trample on. _

_Once in after him I had lent my head heavily between his shoulder blades, panting heat there in a strange relief, trying not to bite the skin that was asking for my imprints. He leaned back into me then turned to raise his hands to my face. A long needy kiss. I had pulled him down on the bed and set-to quelling the pent-up tension that had tightened and twisted like a coil since we had first shook hands at Bart's._

_It was shaky, sweaty and as desperate as hell itself. I knew better of myself to attempt to explain it in rational terms. Why seek to label it? I was neither gay or straight, nor anything that I could find a label for in fact. I did know however, that no one individual had ever come close to having the effect on me that he did. The need was intense to the point I thought we might combust there and then and live forever as elements; energy and heat with no one able to disturb us. _

_I had been with a few men at Medical school and it was clear that he had too. More than once we each had to slow the other so that it wasn't all over and done within minutes. If there was the risk of this being my only shot at sex with Sherlock I wanted more than a quick fumble to keep me warm at night in my lonely room above the seventeen steps. Besides, I had no idea when our work would take us out of London again allowing Sherlock to feel were free of the prying eyes that he believed would use it against us. _

_The only sound in the last few minutes had been breath, kisses and the friction of skin on skin. I began to say his name; quietly at first just mouthing the shape of the words on his neck and shoulders not wanting to disturb the beautiful stillness so differing to London. He heard me and it made him shudder under my touch. I spoke his name louder with his encouraged it and it had been that which had undone him._

_We lay in the hot aftermath of sheets; his head low on my shoulder and defences even less existent than before. I would never of had him down as one for the afterglow. He suddenly reached up and turned my face towards his; eyes scanning as if in realisation of some new fact that had lain undiscovered for years._

"_Your voice John."_

"_What about my voice?" I had asked lazily, summoning the willpower to remain awake. _

"_I don't think you realise that it will always be able to….."_

I'm startled awake by the harsh sound of a door opening somewhere and lift my head quickly checking for any change in him that would have woken me. Instead, Lestrade stands just inside the door catching his breath and looking on in disbelief.

I'm still a little stunned from being ripped from the dream and return my head to Sherlock's arm for a second to rub my eyes. I had been about to remember what he had said to me in the early hours of that morning. But as the mist upon the moor cleared and our departure back to London hung in the air, he had reset his resolve and hadn't spoken of it since the night of the arrest. I wish my brain would clear enough to remember.

"God, its true then. I…I didn't know John. I swear I didn't know," says Lestrade. When I'm clearly unable to offer anything back, he adds "I punched him if it helps."

The Neurologist steps impatiently in behind him, clearly uncomfortable at the politics surrounding his patient. I have no doubt he's being paid admirably by his employer to make up for it however.

"Gentleman, we have our regular care to provide and we need to get ready to move him. I'm sure you understand."

"Move him? Where are you taking him?" asks Lestrade.

"My diagnosis hasn't changed. I'm still not expecting any change in his condition. But he's stable enough for travel. I have now been able to persuade Mr Holmes that his brother would benefit from other facilities that I cannot supply in this environment. It seems you are the only one he will listen to Dr Watson."

I let out a sigh and nod in relief as I turn back to my friend. I still can't quite believe where a few hours have found me. Now all I need is for him to wake. It doesn't sound like much to ask, not like the pleas of before. After all, what is asking someone to wake once pleas for them to return from the grave have been answered?

I grip the cold hand in a temporary goodbye. There were some words trapped behind that movement somewhere, but now that I had an audience I keep them for later.

So as I drag my sorry self away; head down low, my fingers come across a familiar object in my pocket. Something that I had placed in there this morning at the hotel before Mycroft had appeared. The Key fob from the Devonshire Inn. The same that Sherlock had squirreled away as a memento of that stolen night together. During the arrest, I had pressed it into his hand along with my offered glimpses of a future together. It had done my bidding and persuaded him to fight back and run for it.

I place it in his closed hand and squeeze a little as I had done that night. The recognition of it had shone in his eyes and I longed to see that at this moment. But there was only the continued nothing, with little hope of anything else.

Lestrade held the door open, indicating me to follow him out. I hesitate with one quick glance behind to catch black curls and bruised cheekbones.

In the corridor Greg stands with his hands on his hips, brimming with the need for some sort of fight.

"I'll kill him John. Say the word and I'll have him arrested for this." He has a horrid pity in his eyes.

I rub tired eyes. "What exactly would that achieve?"

"It would make me feel a hell of a lot better that's for sure." He pauses his tirade to take in my appearance and frown.

"You going somewhere?"

I pause reading some of the scans on the desk and look down. I was in my full Captain's dress.

"I was reenlisting today. About to leave for my sign-in when Mycroft arrived and…Sorry, I didn't tell anyone, it was…I was... _God_. I have to call someone or I'll be up on charges and I need to find out where they're taking Sherlock."

"You look a wreck John. It looks like we can't do anything here for a while. There's a car outside. How about I take you back to your hotel, you can make some calls, get showered and changed; I can imagine the choice words that would come from Sherlock's mouth if he woke to see you in that. Something about desertion I imagine."

"Greg, I… The chances of that are…slim."

A cough behind me signals Mycroft's re-emergence. "The Inspector is correct. There is no room to travel with him John, I did offer on your behalf. He's being transferred to the Portland. I will call you as soon as he is settled."

"No damn it. I want to be there when he arrives."

"John, I know you have little regard for my reasoning at present. But if you are planning to keep vigil as I know you will you will be better prepared by a trip back to the hotel to collect yourself."

"Do not make any…large decisions without me. Do you understand?"

He looks to the floor and I lower my voice and recapture control through gritted teeth.

"Promise me Mycroft. I am having trouble believing you right now."

"I promise that you are to be involved wholeheartedly from now on."

I give in and we brave the London traffic back to my hotel in silence. Once in, I thank Lestrade for the ride and promise him I'll get some kind of rest before Mycroft sends a car. The hot shower does little to wash the feeling that I was missing something in all of this. It just didn't make sense to me to see Sherlock so locked away. I know that as a Doctor I should be able to rationalise it; understand the observations and conclusions that had been drawn by his medical team. But the truth of the matter was that this was Sherlock. He hadn't intended on leaving me behind before the jump and I'm sure he didn't intend to do it now. If I could just reach him wherever he was, I could persuade him back to us.

I lie on the bed with a cup of tea and wait. It doesn't take long to the feel the weight of sleep to take me back to Sherlock.

_We were in the dark of Kitty Reilly's flat awaiting her return. We had made the most of the handcuffs from the arrest. It had been hurried and difficult and I had been worried we would be disturbed at any moment and that the 'voicing of my enthusiasm' would give us away. But Sherlock had led the way to the sofa and my memory blurred into clouds at that point. He had whispered something in my ear just before we were disturbed. I wish to God I could remember what it had been. It had been important, I know it. It feels as though it would unlock something; to remember. _

"_You must know John. All I ever need is to hear your voice." _

When Sherlock had woken three weeks ago, it had been to my voice shouting down the corridor at a room I thought was housing Moriarty. He was responding to my voice, he had to be. Twice he had told me that calling his name would always bring him back. My voice. All he would ever need was my voice and I had barely been able to find it to speak to him today. It didn't make any sense, but somehow it had to be true.

I wake as if from a nightmare as the phone stabs the silence and I spill my tea across the bedclothes.

"Mycroft. shall I get a cab now?"

-Nothing but a few muffled noises.-

"Mycroft?"

"John. I… He's deteriorating. There's… I don't think there's time."


	12. Chapter 12

**Hi. Thanks for reading so far. Please read and review. X**

**Chapter 12**

I race out of the hotel and down the concrete steps into a bustling Piccadilly. Car horns rip through the air as I charge right out into the road, flagging down a cab that screeches to a halt in front.

"Hay watch it you nutter," shouts the driver as he hangs out the window. "Are you crazy?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please I'll pay you anything. Can you get me to the Portland Hospital as fast as you can?"

"Alright, calm down. In you get or you'll get yourself killed."

Scrambling in, I'm immediately grateful for the force of which the cabbie pulls away into the oncoming traffic.

"Mycroft are you still there? Talk to me."

"Yes. I'm still here."

"What's happening?"

"His heart rate is slowing and there's nothing to be done. We're just…. waiting John. I'm sorry."

His words were cold but the subtle traces of emotion that both Holmes' disguise so artfully could just be made out. It was only becoming as accustomed to them as I had been 'allowed' that highlighted their presence. Or maybe I was the only one that hadn't been scared off. Either way, I could hear the impending loss of a brother in the crackling of the phone line and could imagine the slight twitch of his right eye; The 'Holmes Tell'.

"Will you do something for me Mycroft? Put the phone to his ear. I want him to hear my voice. Can you do that?"

Silence

"I'm in a Taxi Mycroft God knows how long I'll be. I want him to know I'm here, It could be more important that we know…"

"…Yes, alright."

I take a second to compose myself the best I can as I hear muffled movement and the painfully slow irregular beating of a heart rate monitor. _He's giving up._

"God you're a stubborn bastard Sherlock. Why don't you just open your eyes. I'm not going to make this easy on you, do you hear me?"

I say everything to him as if he were there in front of me. I scold him for the way he left the fridge that day. I talk about every time he had amazed me with some ridiculous theory that had turned out to be band on the money. How angry he made me every minute of every day. How he had awoken me from some bad dream that had been my life before him and that he was a selfish prick if he thought he was going to leave me here now, after everything. I reminded him of all the times I had kept him on the right side of sane and how he owed me big time. I would never ever run out of things to say to him. I could carry on for as long as it took and that he should just wake up and tell me to shut the hell up if he thought I was being dull and sentimental.

The backlight of my phone shines up-Battery life at 8%-

_Shit._

"Mycroft. Can you hear me?"

"I'm here John", says the uncomfortable voice.

"My phone battery is going to run out any second. I want you to keep talking to him."

"John. I'm not really very comfortable with that idea… It's hopeless. It's not going to change anything. You're a Doctor you should know these things. Besides he makes it continuously apparent he does not, nor did he ever wish to hear my opinions or advice. He's….He's not a small boy anymore."

"Listen. I don't pretend to know how your relationship works. Believe me I don't. But there are only two people in his world Mycroft. One of them is me and the other is you. I understand why you did it okay? In your strange 'Holmes' messed-up way, you were protecting him. I am still angry with the liberties you took, but I understand your reasons. Jesus, when I think of the things I've done for Harry. I know that he isn't easy. I know these things, but you have to try. I mean, God. Only you have the power the piss him off to that level. I mean _really _piss him off Mycroft. Think about why that is. People are angry when they've lost something. I think Sherlock lost you a long time ago in his eyes, no matter how much he would protest at not feeling things in that way. He spoke once of you going off to school, leaving him with a cold mother and numerous nannies. He was hurt. Now is the time to be an older brother…"

The line goes dead. No more battery.

I feel incredibly dizzy and rest my forehead on my knees, my hands pulling at my hair trying to keep sane in the long minutes that stretch out like a lifetime in front of me_. Please, please just let __it be that he has heard me.__. Just let me get there in time. Please God if you're listening._

The traffic is starting to build along with a dreaded sickness. "Are you alright mate? Do you want me to stop?"

"What? No, please keep going as fast as you can." _Wait a minute. What am I thinking? _"Hay, Excuse me.."

"Dave."

"Right…Dave, I need to borrow your phone?"

"Sorry mate. Was mugged two days ago. Got me phone, wallet and wedding ring."

"Oh. I see. I'm sorry."

I can feel him looking me over in the mirror.

"I couldn't help overhearing. Is your friend sick is that why you're in a hurry?"

I get a proper look at him for the first time since I got into his cab. He's a little over fifty I'd say. Has a picture of a woman in her forties on his dashboard. She's pretty. The scenario reminds me of the first case Sherlock had involved me in and the taxi driver whose life I had cut short, the man who had almost conned Sherlock out of his life all those months ago. It always has to be about the game with him, even now.

I try hard to concentrate on the cabby's words, to make sense of what he's saying.

"Um, yes. There was… an accident. A terrible accident. I thought he had been killed. I know I'm not making any sense. I just thought that if he heard my voice..."

He smiles sympathetically and I turn to face out of the window again eyeing nervously the mounting traffic that is adding to the pressure in my ears. After a second he points to the picture.

"The wife." I smile politely at the picture, not wanting to make idle conversation in the slightest.

"She died two weeks after that picture was taken."

"Oh God. I'm sorry."

"Agh, such is life, you know? She tripped on the stairs, simple as that. She lasted a week."

He seems to be weighing up his next sentence intently. "What you were saying to the person on the phone. It's true you know, I knew she could hear me when I was talking to her. The nurses and the Doctors tell you to let them know you're there. I knew she could hear my voice, right to the end."

He was smiling at the memory. It warmed me slightly in the place where hope and certainty used to live. _God love a nosey Cab driver_.

"Agh will you look at this." He slams his hands on the wheel in frustration gesturing at the traffic cones being placed in the road and the grinding halt of the cars in front. "Looks like there's been a car accident up front. They're closing off the road."

"What! No. I'll run from here, I can't sit just waiting."

"No. We're not close enough mate, it'll take you too long." He whips around intently at the sea of vehicles then glances at me through the mirror as I squirm in my seat, feeling increasingly paler and losing the battle with my nerves.

"Right, I'm not having this"-he says with conviction.

He backs the cab up and horns erupt from behind us. I'm slammed into the side of the taxi as we mount pavements and squeeze between buses and other waiting cars. A warning one-off police siren sounds just behind me, signalling us to stop our highly illegal manoeuvring.

"Dave. It would be really great if we didn't get pulled over. I just want to see my friend."

"And I'm going to get you there. Don't you worry about that."

We squeeze down a pedestrianized high street, blasting the horn sending people scattering. Out of the back window I can see the police car turning the corner after us. The siren kicks up a gear.

"I'd put your seatbelt on if I were you Doctor Watson and hold on tightly."

"Of course. Wait, I didn't tell you my name. How do you know my name?"

He smiles through the mirror. "I was a big fan of your blog. That Sherlock Holmes was incredible I didn't believe a word of that rubbish in the papers about him being a fraud."

I manage a smile just before I'm slammed into the opposite window as we screech round a corner.

We miraculously lose sight of the police car but still hear the screeching sirens as we break several more trafficking laws in the process. Minutes later pull up alongside the ambulance bay at the hospital. I scramble out of the taxi and lean in through the driver's window diving into my pockets for some cash_. Oh_ _Shit. Shit_.

"I don't believe it… I forgot my wallet. If you wait here for one second I'll get some cash from someone inside and I'll be right out. I'm sorry, I'm not thinking clearly. After everything you've done for me…"

"Hay. It's alright forget about it. You've got to get going or the police are going to hold you up, they'll be here in seconds. Let me deal with them."

"This may not make any sense to you, but you've redeemed the London Cab driver in my eyes. Thank you my friend."

"Wash your mouth out doctor of course I understand; 'A study in Pink', my favourite blog that one. Hay"- he shouts after me. "I don't have a clue what the hell is going on, but I hope Mr Holmes is ok?"

Navigating the way to neurology I don't wait for the nurse who is calling me back to the reception desk. I ignore the commotion instead jogging on, peering through doors and shouting his name.

I round a corner at speed at the end of a corridor.

Mycroft stands outside an isolated room. My hand makes a grab at the wall to steady me to catch some breath, but he stands with his tie slightly looser about his neck, his sleeves rolled up staring at the floor in disbelief, a shade of pale so deathly as only the Holmes' can pull off. He lifts his head to stare straight through my presence.

I gasp at the unmoving stale air. "Oh god. No."

He registers reality a little too late as I follow the support of the wall with hands flat against it and crash through the door behind him. "John. Wait."

The room is awash with the evening sunlight and a white so bright that it bounces off the walls leaving me to shield my eyes from it. Eventually colour and sound burst back through to my brain in the form of bright coloured uniforms moving about a hospital bed.

Monitors sound softly in the background; gentle and lulling. Verbal orders are barked out and figures bustle around equipment. A young lady doctor replaces a stethoscope back around her neck, seeming satisfied with the results in front of her and moves to clear my view of the bed.

"Quite miraculous I'm sure," she says. "Mr Holmes, you are quite the luckiest man I've seen in my career so far."

Drowsy eyes peer out from under the sheet, an oxygen mask just visible as Sherlock lies bundled up on his side, shaking gently. His eyes find me and recognition shines in the pools of his irises just before an odd confusion. They flutter closed for a brief second then he strains to try and keep them open.

I kneel on the floor beside him in disbelief.

"You always need everything to be so bloody clever, don't you? Does your quest to make me 'think' always have to be so relentlessly dramatic Sherlock?"

He drags a hand out from under the starched white sheet and brings it up to my face. Cold fingers clinically prod at my cheek and lips, satisfying himself that this particular image is indeed reality and not an hallucination maintained by drugs and injury. I lean into his hand then take it from my cheek to place my own lips there as he returns to sleep.

I close my own eyes and tilt them to the ceiling in relief before placing my arms on the bed, resting my chin on them so as better to watch him.

Just when I think hours could have passed in an instant, he jerks awake with panic visible through the mask as he tries to sit up enough to swing his legs out of the bed.

"Hold it there," I say gently "you're not going anywhere right now."

He moves his head slightly closer with considerable effort and tries to mouth words. I satisfy myself with his oxygen saturations on the monitor before I remove the O2 mask, but his voice is all but a hoarse whisper.

"M.."

"Moriarty is dead, I know.."

He takes a look at his surroundings and gives me a look of contempt.

"They'll…come…for…us. The plan must.."

I lean in close intent on telling him that I'll have Lestrade gather one hundred armed men to surround this bloody hospital and wait it out if we have to. But I won't be letting anyone come to finish the job.

Mycroft clears his throat behind me. "Sherlock is indeed correct John. We left ourselves open to the radar of Moriarty's legacy as soon as we entered these hospital doors. That is why I have set Sherlock's original plan in motion once more,"- his eyes finally land on his brother's form- "now that he has graced us with his presence. The name on his records here is of course now untraceable.."

"Of course…Obvious and ridiculously easy," says the cracked whisper.

Mycroft offers up a sarcastic grimace at his brother's comment. It looks more like a smile now.

"Dr Watson. When his doctors and yourself are satisfied that my brother is fit to make the journey to a considerably better hidden establishment then you will be able to relocate as per the original plan until I am happy that it is safe for you both to return."

"When _**I**_ am happy" says Sherlock. "We both know brother that your intelligence agency leaves little to be…." His lungs finally start to pay him back for the liberty he has taken in actually being awake and alive.

"Ok boys not here. Not now." I place the oxygen mask back over his head only to have his weak hands bat it away in frustration. I hear Mycroft flip his phone open ignoring the protests of a nearby nurse. He slowly saunters out of the door.

"Sherlock, this master plan you had in mind that was so amazing you neglected to tell me about it. Does it…"

"Take us out of London? Yes."

"For how long exactly?"

He investigates some of his dressings on his shoulder then winces as he turns back onto his side, pale and in obvious pain. "A man is a long time dead John. However long it will take to illuminate his contacts."

I lean back and contemplate this plan. Of course I knew it days ago when Mycroft had confessed all but now it is Sherlock filling in the gaps, albeit a little slower than usual, something felt off. His eyes watched me and I want to lean in and remove all that heaviness from his brow and just tell him to sleep whilst I stayed right here next to him.

He suddenly rallies a little and slides up the bed a fraction.

"But it doesn't matter anymore. You're not coming."

"I'm sorry what?"

"You're not coming John."

"Like hell I'm not. Might I remind you what has just occurred here. You shouldn't even be _alive_ Sherlock. I shouldn't think I'll need one but do you want me to find a way of keeping you in this bed because I have no problem with that. I am a doctor after all. What has changed?"

He shifts uncomfortably, "I work better alone. That no longer means you being involved in my little trip."

I see. Hitting me where it hurts then."

"You'll slow me down."

"Oh yeah? I'm going to take that as an insult from the man in the cast, two chest drains and a head injury that a stunt motorcyclist would be proud off."

"Have you gone mad John?"

"Says the man who leaped 'wrongly' off the top of a building. Yes I rather think I have. You see the man I have sat here praying to live, praying to return to at least some form of what he was before has woken up and done just that. You're being stubborn and dim witted, but I'll let you off seeing as you're in a hospital bed. I know you can do it on your own you idiot but we'll get it done faster together you know we will. Surely you can understand the logic within that, you pride yourself on it, its what gets you by isn't it?"

The lady doctor puts her head around the door and nods at her colleague looking over the charts. "We're going to need to CT scan your head now Mr Holmes, bet you've the worst headache of your life."

"I wish someone would," I said arms folded solid.

It takes a second but he cracks a smile and tries to laugh a little which is instantly regretted.

I gather him up easily and gently letting his head hang on my shoulder and rest there. I press a kiss to the side of his forehead and feel the heaviness of his muscles against me. The hand that lies between us grabs the material of my shirt and his eyelashes flutter closed against my neck.

"You didn't have your uniform dry-cleaned at our local drycleaners. It was done in Piccadilly by a Chinese Gentleman. You've been staying in a hotel we've visited before in that area."

It wasn't a question. I just hold him a little tighter.

"Your safety remains the only goal here John."

"It's the same from here Sherlock, that's what a relationship means you bloody idiot. Now come on lie down, they'll take you in a second."

He does so slowly with his hand still scrunched in my shirt. Before they take him from the room I bend down and kiss him nuzzling the side with no bandages. He doesn't open his eyes again seemingly lost in the punishment his body was beginning to inflict.

"I'll be here when you get back," I whisper.

_The bed is wheeled down a dark corridor. Mycroft waits patiently at the end of it, his face lit by the light of his phone as he texts. Sherlock regards him, his expression as cold as his brother's as he lifts the oxygen mask._

"_There will be a time when we discuss what you did to John. But for now, I trust you didn't need me to be obvious and voice what I wanted you to do aloud? You have organised it?"_

"_Of course. These Gentlemen are taking you now. I trust you'll behave better in this transfer."_

_Mycroft goes to walk away but I hand grabs at his arm._

"_You'll permit me some paper and a pen brother?"_

_He contemplates the request for a second then nods._

"Excuse me are you Dr Watson?"

The gentle tap on my shoulder wakes me from my upright chair-napping and I spill some of the cold coffee on the floor.

"A gentleman asked me to give you this."

A piece of paper folder into a neat square.

_My Dearest John_

_Please forgive me once again._

_SH__._


	13. Chapter 13

The Missing Scenes

PART 2

It started with a phone call.

The bloodied dark stranger made his way into the telephone box, taking comfort in the sudden shelter it provided. He pulled the damp coat closer around his bony shoulders. _Did it ever stop raining in this godforsaken country?_

It was almost midnight and the small village streets lay deserted as if in homage to the job _well done_. A shaky hand with bruised knuckles picked up the receiver and slowly punched in the number from memory, misdialling twice as the cold finally hit bone. That, and adrenaline he supposed- the owner of a pair of hands that not 30 minutes ago had taken a man to a bloody death with machine-like accuracy. His gun had been lost in the final furlong and he had been forced to use a concrete brick to finish the job. _Necessary. Merely a logical premise- a final step that cleared it all and allowed him home. To Baker street. To him. _

"C'est fait." said the voice, almost unrecognisable to its owner. "It's done. " A..A..Apportez-moi la maison mon frere. Bring me…. Home." _Why couldn't he stop shaking? Oh yes. The struggle. There had been a knife apparently._

"English please brother. Compose yourself. Are you hurt?" says the steady voice.

"I.. just get me home."

"Where are you?"

"Ariège-Pyrenees. Small village. Southern corner of France."

"Ah yes. Moriarty had connections there. Good. Good. Well then, get yourself to Paris Sherlock. It will give me till to bring you 'back' and ensure you're not being followed. I don't want you traced back to the government. _That_ is my priority. I'll send a man. He'll be in contact. Goodbye."

The phone went dead.

The dark stranger slowly replaced the receiver then laughed quietly to himself, flinching at the pain in his side. "Manners brother." Taking a second to compose himself, he pulled the sodden coat further around his neck then ducked out of the phone box into the cold night in search of a car to hotwire.

John Watson got up that morning. He got dressed, had a cup of tea and stared at the empty spot on the sofa. He had done this every morning since an injured Sherlock had disappeared from the hospital under Mycroft's steam nearly eight months ago to complete the final task without him. And John Watson was angry.

"John, your empty slot has been filled. Shall I show him straight in?"

"Yes. Fine. Thanks." He rubbed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. He was tired. He had been since Sherlock had been gone. He was done with the worrying, the wondering at whether he was lying somewhere shot and bleeding with no one to call an ambulance. Was he wondering about John? Despite Sherlock coming straight out with it and telling John, it was all for him, he still felt the the paradox of Sherlock's words and his way around what had happened. How could this man eat up John's life, even when he wasn't in close proximity?

John looked up to see a sharp suit and hear the _clicking_ of the large umbrella.

"Tell me it's a serious health issue on your part or get out."

"Come now John. I have news. Don' t you wish to hear it?"-says the man as he takes a seat.

"I wish you would leave me be. I'm done, I told you that last time you came to pick about in the rubble."

"He's been in contact John."

The Doctor stills for a second then tries agonisingly hard not to look up, choosing instead to take a file out of his top draw and start to peruse it with poorly masked intent.

The sharp suit waited patiently for his bate to be taken.

"Is he….is alright at least?"

The other man smiles with content. "There you see. That wasn't hard was it?"

"Oh Just get the hell out will you Mycroft."

"I have a proposition for you John. He's coming home. I'm sending a man to Paris to collect him. I believe it maybe pertinent to my brother's health if you were that man."

"Not interested."

"You're a bad actor Doctor."

John stands, his chair screaming at the floor as it slides out from under him. The noise makes Mycroft wince.

"I'm done with any Holmes that shows his presence. I have better self-preservation skills than you give me credit for. I can't. I just can't do _that_ anymore. Now please get out."

Mycroft's surprise briefly makes it across his features before frosting over once more. He takes his time getting up, revelling in John's discomfort and pain laid bare in front of him, adding it to the catalogue of many he has stored away in his files.

John shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his thin jacket as he walked purposefully back down Baker Street. He's not thinking about it. He's thinking about anything but that man. And failing miserably. He's probably thousands of miles away and he still has this effect on him, an invisible thread pulling at him at all times, no matter how long he's been away or what he's done. Nothing erases it. John has a horrible feeling it never will. Where the hell does that leave him?

He stopped dead at the turning into Baker Street then changed direction, then switched again finally kicking the wall in frustration. He headed out back on to the main road and takes out his phone and texts the one person who would understand his position.

_-Greg. The Allsop Arms on the Marylebone Road. I need you to talk me out of something-_

John nursed his whiskey with fidgety hands.

"Did he tell you anything else?" asked the Inspector.

"No."

"What _is_ wrong with the Holmes', seriously?" He stops his mocking as soon as he sees John's worried preoccupied expression. "Ok, let's not beat around the bush here. You either decide you're out and finish this for good- and God Knows John, no one would blame you- Sherlock isn't built to be around…. _real_ people.

John flinches at the last comment.

"Or?" he whispers.

"Or you jump in again. And probably get clobbered. Again."

John looks up at his choice of words. That is exactly what it was, it was jumping head first. Again.

"He has the social skills of a worm, and that whole _being dead _thing! That was not cool. I nearly lost my whole livelihood over that. And the guilt…I had to watch you suffer the way that you did. That was the worst time in _my_ life, I can say that for sure."

John grimaced.

"But let's face it John. You're not a git. He hurt you yes, but if anyone is equipped to deal with that man, you are. I don't think you can leave him to it any more than I could all those years ago when he was a drug addled spark of light. I know you, and so does Mycroft Holmes apparently. But really mate, you did a good job trying to convince yourself you weren't going to run after him. But no one is ever going to be able to talk you out of Sherlock Holmes- I saw it all those years ago when you first stepped on to my crime scene. He had you good."

John looks embarrassed at his apparent transparency.

Greg pated him jovially on the back with force, knocking John forward, then downed his own pint in one swift move. "So shall I call you a cab or what?"

Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the back seat of the Rolls Royce onto the Mayfair pavement. He stopped short when he reached the glossy black front door and smiles. _He did enjoy being right_.

John Watson stood in the Shelter of the doorway, soaking wet from the night's rain.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not here because of you."

"Oh no. Of course not."

John looked at his shoes. "Tell me. Is he alright?"

"Oh, you care now?"

"Don't fuck with me Mycroft."

"The job he took on is done. That is all I know."

"What. That's it. Nothing else?"

"I don't concern myself with the petty details John. Only the important ones."

"God. No wonder you came looking for me. Don't hide your inabilities behind a curtain of 'not caring' Mycroft. It makes you look stupid. Tell me where I'm going."

"Lestrade was right. You can't say no." He smiles to himself and slides past John. "My driver will take you to the ferry. Here, take this credit card, you'll need it. I've seen your bank account statements."

John looks at the credit card in Mycroft's hand in disgust. "I don't need your help. Just the address."

"Very well. If you feel like you have something to prove, so be it. Here is the name of the hotel in Paris." And with that he shut the door.

John bangs on the door to the plush offices with his fists. "Is that it? He's your brother Mycroft. He went where you led him. This is your fault." He steps back into the rain, knowing it to be useless and folds the hotel address into his pocket.


End file.
